_New York,
February._
Every night I read your letters over and over. You are my love and my
sweetheart and I adore you. I can hardly believe such happiness is
coming to me, for there never was anyone so dear in all the world,
there never has been, there never will be. Your friends have been so
kind to me and your father has sent me such nice letters.
Oh by the way, whom are you riding horseback with? Mona Lisa? Ahem,
and the horse is called after her. So the grass widow is back in Rome,
and Peppi, you say, is cocking his eye at her? I think Aunt is too
busy with her charities lately to remember about her handsome artist
with his wild hair. She no longer wears floppy artistic gowns, she
really likes titles, and is getting quite excited over Prince Boris’
coming.
Now, A. D., I’ve got some news for you. Aunt just wouldn’t formally
announce our engagement, so I did! Yes, my dear! I sent a notice
myself to the papers, chuckling as I wrote it. Now it’s up to you. The
only thing for you to do, I warn you, is to come over as quickly as
you can and carry off your Pagan Polly, provided you still want her.
* * * * *